Williams. Copy.â
The device emitted a series of hisses and crackles.
âWhere are you?â asked a sexless voice. âOver.â
âWeâre busy,â replied Dominic.
Bettinger thumbed the talk bar. âWeâre on Summer and Twentieth. Over.â
âProceed to five forty-three Point Street, apartment sixteen ten. Thereâs a civil disturbance. Do you copy?â
âWe copy. Whatâs the nature of the disturbance? Over.â
âDomestic violence. Over.â
âWho lives at this address? Over.â
âItâs unclear who lives there. Over.â
âWeâre on our way. Over and out.â
Bettinger clipped the receiver to the console.
Dominic seized the two-way unit, tore it from the dashboard, and tossed it into the rear of the car.
âFive forty-three Point Street,â said the detective.
âI fuckinâ heard.â
âApartment sixteen ten.â
Unable to look at his passenger, the bandaged, bull-nosed corporal tightened his fists upon the wheel. âYou tryinâ to get me to take a swing at you? Turn my demotion into a suspension?â
âWho knows why I do anything?â
âWell I ainât gonna throw no fists at you.â
Bettinger was not sure if the man was implying some subtler form of retaliation, but he let the comment sail.
Â
XIII
Crabhead
The vehicle sped west, and gradually, the surrounding parks, retail stores, and brownstones were replaced by rows of tall tenement buildings. Peopling the bleak sidewalks of this area were a few shambling oldsters and some pale skinheads who wore big jackets over their Hitler tattoos. On the corner of Tenth and Charles, a white teenager whose pierced face looked like a shrapnel museum eyeballed the black policemen, walked to the edge of the road, and scratched his underarms, chattering like a monkey. His contemporaries on the far side of the street applauded his wit.
Dominic drove past the idiot, turned onto a narrow road, and parked alongside the curb. Together, the pair exited the car and walked west.
Five youths on skateboards zoomed around the front courtyard of a gray project building that wore the number 543. The top two stories of the twenty-story structure were illuminated by sunlight, but most of it was in shadow.
âCops,â announced a light-skinned black kid who wore a gold sweat suit and had elaborately braided hair.
Two of the youths rocketed away.
Bettinger and Dominic entered the courtyard, and the remaining skateboarders kept their distance. Far-off shouts continued to announce the presence of law enforcers.
The detective gauged the building as he walked across the concrete. Its front door was a combination of bulletproof glass and iron bars, and the intercom panel looked like it had been struck by a meteor.
Pausing, Bettinger eyed the light-skinned black kid. âYou seem knowledgeable.â
The youth shook his elaborate braids as he skated. âI ainât.â
âCome here.â
âI didnât do nothinâ.â
âEver heard of a place called school?â asked Dominic.
âNever.â
âWell you sâposed to be in it right nowâlearninâ how to be better than this.â
âI learn plenty right here.â The kid zoomed around the policemen. âThe courtyardâs educational.â
âWhatâs your name?â asked Bettinger, monitoring the satellite.
âLet me go ask my momma.â
The light-skinned skateboarder veered away from his inquisitors.
âIf you make me come get you,â Dominic warned, âyou ainât gonna be talkinâ clever.â
The youth skidded to a halt. âWhy you need my name? I didnât do nothinâ.â
Bettinger thought that the kidâs ornate braids had a crustaceous appearance. âWeâll call you Crabhead until you give us something better.â
âThe fuck you will, nigga.â
Dominic